For Want of a Home
by Genevievey
Summary: This fills in the scene we missed, when Peter and Assumpta look after the abandoned baby in "The Facts of Life".


_AUTHOR'S NOTE: I'm sure I'm not the only one who felt cheated when in "The Facts of Life", Peter and Assumpta spent a night looking after an abandoned baby together, and we didn't get to see any of it. So, this is just me filling in the gap._

_"Ballykissangel" and its wonderful characters belong to Mr. Kieran Prendiville, not me. Please read & review!  
_

**For Want of a Home  
**

Assumpta heaved a sigh of frustration, drumming her fingers on the windowsill. She was used to the frequent downpours that were simply part of life in this country, but she could not forgive the extraordinarily bad timing of it. It always rained just when she most felt the need to be outdoors – it was as though the natural world was conspiring to irritate her, and this evening was no different. Fionn shared his mistress' mood this evening, whining at the door.  
"Ah, go on," sighed Assumpta, reaching for her coat. Her dog needed a walk as much as she did, and they could handle a few drops of rain.

By some miracle, the rain had ceased almost entirely by the time they stepped out onto the main street of Ballykissangel. It was nice being out so late at night; Assumpta let the peacefulness wash over her, enjoying the chance to just think and _be_, without someone bothering you for a glass of stout every second.

Ambling past the curate's house, she instinctively turned to view it. Peter would be asleep of course, but she seemed somehow incapable of passing his house without acknowledging it as his home. Silly, that. But her attention was immediately captured by the sight of Doctor Ryan's car parked outside. At this hour of the night he could hardly be making a social call…A knot began to form in Assumpta's stomach, and gripping Fionn's leash tighter she approached the door.

A few moments after she had knocked, footsteps were heard, and the door swung open. Peter; looking dishevelled and exhausted, but not visibly harmed. The relief which Assumpta felt was so surprisingly intense that she struggled to speak for a moment.  
"Assumpta."  
"Oh, you're okay, erm…I was just passing and I saw Dr. Ryan's car, I thought you might've had a—"  
The shrill cry of an infant stopped Assumpta in her tracks. What on earth…?  
"…A baby?"  
Peter let out a dry chuckle and stepped aside.  
"You'd best come in."

The situation was quickly made clear, and as Michael phoned for a social worker Peter took the little towel-wrapped bundle of life in his arms. Now over the shock of it all, Assumpta quickly regained the air of nonchalance which she had let slip so carelessly at the thought of Peter being unwell.  
"I suppose he's kinda cute," she conceded with a sceptical smile, "if you're into that sorta thing."  
The curate didn't dignify that with a response, instead focusing on the infant who was sucking on his little finger. "You just ignore her, she's a big softie really."  
Assumpta shook her head wryly as she made a pot of tea, and did her best to ignore the warm feeling pooling inside her. She should change the subject, keep to factual matters.  
"So did you get the number of the car?"  
"No. But I think it was from somewhere outside Ballykea."  
"And how'd you work that out, Columbo?"  
She always found the best way to combat warm fuzzies was a nice dose of sarcasm. But Peter just replied, "Well, because I didn't recognise the car, and because I don't know of anyone around here who was expecting a baby, do you?"  
"Well, not officially, anyway."  
"What does that mean?"  
"Well, it wouldn't be the first time in Ireland that a girl gave birth to a baby in secret. Comes from living in a country where _some_ people think 'family planning' means getting the kids to Mass on time."  
There, now she had a point of argument, something she could feel enough anger about to counteract the effects of a wonderful man cooing over an adorable baby.  
"Oh, don't tell me, it's the Church's fault again."  
"Well, you don't exactly make things easy, do you?"  
But arguing with Peter wasn't really such an effective shield after all, because it simply made him stare at her more intently. Damn it.

Thankfully, Michael entered the kitchen, informing them that a social worker would be over to get the child, but until then he should be kept in the warm. Assumpta wasn't quite sure what it was that made her volunteer to stay with Peter and help out; she would have liked to think that it was an act of charity, but had a sneaking suspicion that it had less to do with the goodness of her heart and more to do with the weakness of it where this particular man was concerned. The baby began to cry when handed to her (_not surprising_, she thought, _I'd cry too if someone took me out of Peter's arms…_) and she suddenly felt completely out of her depth. With the baby boy's warm little body in her arms, and Peter pouring her a cup of tea, Assumpta could not be at all confident in her ability to stay detached.

Michael departed to get some sleep, and they moved into the lounge, where Peter turned on the heater while he started to light a fire. Cradling the baby in her arms, Assumpta sat down carefully on the sofa, stretching her legs out to warm her feet by the heater. Setting the fire, Peter spoke over his shoulder.  
"I really do appreciate this, you know. I bet he does too; he would've missed a mother figure if he'd just been left with me."  
"Oh come on, you're practically the Baby Whisperer. I'm just here to lend a hand."  
Peter smiled as he got to his feet, pocketing the box of matches. "Well, thanks anyway. Where's your cup of tea?"  
"In there," she nodded towards the kitchen. "I've got my hands full."  
The man nodded with another smile, and strode off to fetch it for her. Smiling down at the infant in her arms, Assumpta thought to herself, _I could get used to this…if I'm not careful._

Soon Peter joined her on the sofa, with his own cup of tea. She wasn't quite sure whether it made her feel relieved or jealous that his eyes flew immediately to the little towel-clad face in her arms.  
"That's it," he smiled softly, "just you relax and nod off, young fella. There's two of us here to guard you, and no one's going to mess with Assumpta."  
The woman snorted at that. "You'd better believe it."  
The baby's tiny hand was clutching Peter's finger, but his eyes were drooping, and soon closed. Peter left his hand resting on the baby's stomach, his arm resting on Assumpta.  
"Sorry," he murmured sheepishly, "don't want to move and wake him."  
She shook her head, to show him she didn't mind. Actually, the warm pressure of his arm on hers was pleasant. Very much so.

"We should call him something," she murmured, to break the silence. "Just for tonight. I mean, we can't refer to him as 'it' all night."  
"Certainly not," Peter agreed. "How about…Benjamin?"  
She wrinkled her nose. "Trust you to pick an English name. This guy's a little Irishman; a Sean, I think. Or a Connor."  
"He is a strong little bloke," Peter nodded, "he should be named after some warrior. Actually, he reminds me of Cuchulainn; you know, born in mysterious circumstances, raised by people other than his parents…And he'll grow into just as impressive a man, I hope."  
Assumpta raised an eyebrow. "How do you know so much about Celtic myth?"  
"I've been educating myself," the curate nodded towards the table on which sat a few books.  
She grinned. "Develop a taste for stout and you'll be practically assimilated."  
Peter smiled. "I wouldn't complain. I like it here."  
"I'm glad," she said, and meant it. She looked down at little Cuchulainn, to break their gaze. Very slowly, Peter withdrew his finger from the baby's grasp, and put his arm back by his side. Assumpta tried not to miss the warmth of their contact.

"I'm afraid you've got the rough end of the deal," he murmured, getting up to turn off the main lights, just leaving a few lamps glowing, "he fell asleep in your arms so you're stuck there until he wakes up."  
"Oh, I don't mind."  
Peter smiled again, and reached for a cushion, carefully propping it behind her head.  
"As long as you're comfy."  
Leaning her head back into the soft cushion, Assumpta sighed contentedly. She was very comfy indeed, and though a small part of her mind was still insisting that she shouldn't get too used to this, she was losing the fight against the warm, drowsy feeling…

After washing their mugs, Peter returned to the lounge. The smile that lit his face upon seeing Assumpta cradling the infant became even more tender when he realized that she too had nodded off, her head tilted back against the cushion. He crossed the room, turning off the second-last lamp, but left one glowing. It would be wasteful to throw such a scene into darkness. He stood there for quite some time, just taking in the sight of them; could anything warm his heart more? Peter couldn't help imagining this scene in other circumstances; circumstances in which his collar was not waiting upstairs, in which he would be free to enfold the both of them in his arms…But he would have to be content with this one night…And he would savour every minute. Peter crossed the room, carefully lowering himself onto the sofa next to them. He could feel Assumpta's warmth radiating across the small distance between them. She was so beautiful in the soft light, her face relaxed and unguarded, her lips parted… He almost envied the baby, being held so tenderly in her arms…

Just as Peter's own eyelids began to droop, young Cuchulainn stirred, opened his eyes, and let out a shrill cry.  
Assumpta was startled awake, and the first thing she noticed was the bundle in her arms. The second was a lovely man bending over her.  
"Looks like your shift's over," he muttered, taking the infant from her arms. The woman smiled faintly, her mind still foggy with sleep. It was sweet, waking up to Peter. She sat there for a moment, just watching him pace back and forth with Cuchulainn cradled against his shoulder. Assumpta had never thought herself to be the especially clucky type, but she couldn't help the warm smile from lighting her face as she watched them. Reluctantly getting to her feet, she started for the kitchen, to boil the kettle again.

When she came back, a mug in each hand, she paused in the doorway, her expression softening instantly. Peter had made a makeshift cradle from a washing basket and cushions, and was lowering the infant in, making soft noises of comfort.  
"I know, I know. Shhh…I would sing you a lullaby, but my singing attempts would probably scar you for life. I can whistle though…this is a tune my Mum used to sing to me, when I was a little lad."  
Softly whistling a lilting melody, Peter tucked the baby in then stood up straight again. He didn't stop whistling until he turned to find Assumpta standing in the doorway. He started a little, and smiled sheepishly as she handed him a cup.  
"Thanks…Actually, you're the one to go to for lullabies, I bet."  
The woman shook her head. "Hardly."  
"Oh, go on. For the kid? Look at those gorgeous wee eyes."

Assumpta heaved a reluctant sigh; it was a different pair of gorgeous eyes that won her over, as they always did. She bent over the cradle, letting the little boy grasp her finger. Under any other circumstances she would have felt more self-conscious, but her sleepiness and the low lights gave everything a dream-like quality, and she just let go. Softly, Assumpta began to croon; a slow, gentle, wordless tune familiar from childhood. The melody was soothing, and strangely bittersweet. When little Cuchulainn's eyes drooped closed, she got slowly to her feet, standing beside Peter. Turning to face him, she found him staring at her in admiration. After a moment he dropped his gaze, shaking his head, "And you said you weren't the one for lullabies."

The woman just smiled, and moved away to the sofa, massaging her brow. Up until now this evening (well, morning, really) had seemed like a few hours stolen from heaven, but quite suddenly Assumpta felt that she was in too deep. Why had she volunteered for this? It was torture, being in this situation with Peter. She felt like the mythical Tantalus; what she craved was before her eyes, but always just beyond her reach. And damn it, this little lounge, the soft light, him…

Peter took a seat next to her on the sofa; too close and too far away at once. She was relieved to find his gaze still fixed on the cradle.  
"How could anyone abandon their own child?"  
Assumpta folded her arms. "Some people lead desperate lives."  
"I know, but still…I mean, wrapped up in that towel is a little bundle of humanity. It's about the most precious thing in the world."  
She nodded. "It seems so wrong that some couples want children so much and can't have them, while others conceive by accident and want rid of them. It's not fair."  
"Life isn't," Peter replied, and she felt that tonight, the entire situation, was a prime example of how unfair life could be.

"Still, there's hope…You'll be a wonderful mother."  
Assumpta felt herself blush, and lowered her gaze.  
"Oh, there's more to it than lullabies, I hear."  
"Yes, I think we're getting it easy," he agreed, with a smile. Under different circumstances she would have returned the compliment; she'd seen evidence enough tonight that Peter would make a grand father—if only he wasn't Father Clifford.

"You can doze off if you want. I'll take the night watch."  
"Nah, I'm fine," she replied, but her body betrayed her with a yawn, and she smiled sheepishly. Peter's only response was to hand her a cushion, and resume whistling his lullaby.  
"Cute," muttered Assumpta dryly, as she always did whenever he was so dangerously adorable, but snuggled down in the sofa anyway. Since she could hardly escape this situation now, perhaps the best thing to do would be to close her eyes and block it out. But now she was convinced that loss of one sense enhances the others; Assumpta was terribly aware of his breathing, the clean scent of him. If she hadn't been so tired, it would have been _completely_ unbearable…God, she was tired…

Peter had been staring into space, both to keep his eyes from the beauty next to him, and because he was once again deep in thought. His reverie of 'what ifs' was disturbed when he noticed a head of dark curls nodding closer and closer to his shoulder. The man froze, almost holding his breath; not quite sure whether he was praying for or dreading the moment when her head would come to rest on his shoulder. Assumpta's head nodded, and fell onto his shoulder; Peter shifted in his seat, so that his shoulder was at the most convenient angle for her to lean on. In response, the sleeping woman snuggled closer with a contented smile, and it was all Peter could do to marvel at the warmth of her cheek, the scent of her hair…Though temporarily blissful, this moment was also painful; to have this much, and no more! He took away the sting by pretending that there was no reason they shouldn't be snuggled together on a sofa at three in the morning. Peter remembered some old song lyrics that said 'dreams are just like wine', and now he agreed; in the morning the beauty of this illusion would be gone—replaced with a headache most likely—but for now it was wonderful.

And so the hours passed; some sleeping, some waking, all in a pleasant haze…until sunlight began to play around the edges of the curtains, shining in Assumpta's eyes. Stirring slightly, she noticed that her cheek was resting against a warm, shirt-clad shoulder. She didn't move, just raised her eyes to check that Peter was still asleep, and when she found him so, snuggled just a little closer. She couldn't smile, there was no reason to; instead she just focused every atom of her attention on how it felt to lie here next to Peter.

She had never been less pleased to hear a knock on the door. As Peter stirred, the woman pulled away quickly to sit up straight; it would be less awkward if he didn't wake to find her leaning on him. The curate rubbed his eyes, and the situation quickly dawned.

"I'll get it," he said, standing up, and Assumpta knew that was the best way; it might look a bit odd if she answered the priest's door. Instead she crossed the room, and picked up the little infant.  
"Good morning, young fella. You're off now, a nice lady's here to take care of you."

Peter came through the door, with the social worker in tow.  
"This is my friend Assumpta," he explained, "she's been giving me a hand looking after this little guy."  
The social worker smiled in appreciation, though Assumpta felt embarrassed being praised for something which hadn't really been charity in the least, and handed the baby into her arms.  
"Thank you very much, the both of you. You've done an excellent job. I'd better take him back and feed him, but Father, I'll let you know if anything changes."  
"Great, thanks."

They watched the car depart, and found themselves standing in the cool morning sunshine.  
"Well…" sighed Peter.  
"Yes…"  
"Coffee?"  
"God, yes."

They shared a cup of coffee at the kitchen table, in that still-sleepy state that makes conversation seem unnecessary. The pale sun shone in through the kitchen window, shining in Assumpta's eyes and making them water a little. She was cold, and everything seemed pale. Where had the warm glow of last night gone? Oh yeah, this was the real world. Draining her cup, the woman got to her feet.

"What's the time? I'd better get over to the pub, get the place in shape."  
"Oh, of course," nodded Peter, taking her cup. "Look, thanks for everything."  
"Not a problem," Assumpta shrugged on her coat. This leaving him was strange, she wasn't sure quite how to do it. "Well, I'll see you later then."  
"Yeah. Bye."

So there she was, alone in the quiet of the morning. A quiet bark turned her head, and she noticed Fionn tied up, waiting for her. Well, at least she wasn't completely alone.  
"Come on, Fionn," she sighed. "Home."

But the publican couldn't help feeling that a real 'home' was exactly the kind of place she was currently walking away from. But Assumpta Fitzgerald knew better than most people that sometimes, life is just not fair. And perhaps she would just have to count her blessings. Funny, but her greatest blessing and her greatest curse seemed to be a Catholic priest. Perhaps she'd have to count him twice.


End file.
